


Dress Up in You

by estas_absentis



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Bisexual Character, F/F, Lesbian Character, M/M, Other, Slow Burn, trixya - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-09-01 14:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8628376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estas_absentis/pseuds/estas_absentis
Summary: [Cis-girl fic] Trixie is a college grad working at the mall make-up counter. Katya is the eccentric woman at her bus stop. Together they were cops (well, actually they weren't. But they did fall in love, which is better).





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter in what I'm hoping will be a longish series. It's going to be a fairly slow burn Trixya fic with cameos from the other girls as they crop up. Trixie and Katya are both cis girls in this. 
> 
> Please take the time to comment and let me know your thoughts if you read this. 
> 
> Thanks hennies <3

Trixie's on the fucking bus again. It's the worst part of her day, the forty minutes every morning and evening that she has to cram in with every other fucker in town without a car, sweating through her makeup and unable to see out through the condensation-whitened windows. There 's usually a smelly dude, or a leery dude, or some hitherto unlabelled brand of gross dude, eyeing her or trying to take a seat beside her when there are other spaces empty.

 

If it's not that it's kids travelling to school, rattling excitedly through the no mans' land between parental supervision at home and teacher supervision at the other end. Mad on the brief high of freedom, they're always trying out curse-words in forced tones or trying to sneak a cig without the driver noticing, getting her extensions stinky in ways shampoo just doesn't get out. Writing cheques their teenage egos can't cash with their mocking taunts about her appearance, about touching her, asking her out.

 

People don't get Trixie – not on the bus, not at work, not really. They take a look at her pink poodle fantasy of an outfit, her heavy contour, her teased-to-perfection blonde hair, and they judge. It doesn't matter that she's at once half-joking and deadly serious, doesn't matter that she's dressing up as the perfect girl to prove that there _is_ no perfect girl, that her exaggeration of gendered expectation is deliberate and smart and cutting; it doesn't even matter that she looks good and feels good, that she looks in the mirror when she leaves the house and knows she's her own dream-girl. People are assholes, and Trixie's over it.

 

She works 9 to 5 (thanks Dolly) on the MAC counter at her city's Sephora. Eight hours per day squished into a black tunic doing identical faces for teens who should be in school and bored housewives looking for a new self – they never want anything exciting, just a nude lip or a smokey eye, just a mask of prettiness that is nice but unremarkable. Yawn.

 

It's been a shitty day – some snooty bitch with too much time on her hands got her whole face done, took up a whole hour of Trixie's precious time, then bought only a brow pencil sharpener and a spoolie when she left. She'll have to work pretty hard tomorrow if she wants to catch up on her commission – she can't afford to get behind. Life since college has been pretty tough for Trixie; funnily enough, everything the douchebag Econ majors said at parties is true, and she hasn't been one of the 0.0001% of Musical Theatre students who make it big. Now she's drying out her skin under strip lighting all day for basic wage, riding the bus and eating ramen in front of gameshows in the evenings. 24 is not her best year.

 

The rain starts as she gets to her stop, and, because she is just _that_ lucky, it's not one of the ones with the little roofs and uncomfy plastic seating. She pulls her faux fur coat up, raising her arms over her head to get some shelter. Her poor hair is deflating like an unrisen sponge cake and she curses the fact that she went for style over substance when she picked out her jacket – a hood would come in handy right now.

 

“Want to come under here?”

 

The voice is strange, American like Trixie but with an inflection of something under it that she can't place, just a hint of it curling around the Rs and clipping the vowels. It comes from a small woman, narrow and shorter than Trixie is, honey blonde hair spilling in slightly bedraggled waves over slight shoulders draped in a fur-trimmed cape-type arrangement in striking red. Tight black leggings lead from the cape into over-the-knee black boots with a modest but noticeable heel. A pale, bony hand with long red nails and cheap costume rings on every finger is holding a golf umbrella with a photographic print of _dolphins_ on it, grinning madly in the ocean spray as if it isn't the grimmest, grayest day going. The woman's face is obscured by the dolphin-strewn fabric, but underneath the rim of the umbrella, a thin plume of cigarette smoke wafts weakly out, dampened as it rises by the falling rain.

 

“Umm...” Trixie's hesitant, unsure about this stranger who seems so eccentric and out of place on the dull street, and wondering if asking her to put out her cigarette before Trixie ducks under the umbrella's rim would be rude or reasonable. After a beat, she decides that slightly stale-smelling extensions are preferable to rain smudged mascara and the inevitable revelation of her clip-in tracks as her backcombing collapses in the drizzle. Vanity, thy name is Trixie.

 

“Sure, thanks!” she says brightly, more confident than she feels. It's kind to let a stranger under your umbrella in bad weather, and Trixie knows she's often too cynical. The woman repositions her umbrella to make room for Trixie's extra height, revealing a long, beautiful face. Her complexion is pale and flawless (Trixie's inner makeup geek wants to grill her on her foundation choices like, yesterday) and her generous mouth is a bold shade of red. It's curled into a little smile, and Trixie can tell she smiles a lot from how _right_ her face looks in this position. The woman's eyes are heavily ringed in black and slightly winged, and her lashes are either fake or God was very unjust when he portioned out eyelash quantity, because they are long and dark, giving the woman a coy, coquettish look that suggests an air of mischief.

 

“Come in, come in, can't have you melting like a cupcake in the shower!” she urges, which doesn't really make much sense when Trixie thinks about it. “I'm Katya, nice to meet you, hold this please” she says, all in one breath. Trixie finds the umbrella handle thrust into her own grip and Katya lets go, ducking down to rifle through the enormous black handbag at her feet.

 

“It's full of crap, I swear I never clean this thing out, I got a big bag so I could have stuff with me and then I can never find any of it!” she declares, fishing around with one elegant hand whilst the other holds the bag open. The contents are a mess of balled-up paper, lipstick tubes and cigarette cartons. Katya squeezes each of these cartons until she apparently finds one that feels full, makes a little chirp of triumph and stands up with a swift grace that suggests the body of a dancer, or a gymnast. She holds the pack out to Trixie questioningly, and Trixie shakes her head, tells her “I don't smoke” and then, after a moment, remembers to add “but thanks, though!”.

 

Katya shakes her head as if Trixie thanking her is silly, shuffles the unlit cigarette to one side of her mouth and says through the unoccupied end “Anything for a damsel in distress. Especially a damsel who will wear a fur bolero in a rainstorm”.

 

Before Trixie can answer Katya, she sees the bus over the other woman's shoulder, drawing into the stop, its lights bright against the smoggy sky. It isn't Trixie's service, as she can see when it's close enough to focus on the number above the drivers' cab. As it brakes, it skids through a deep puddle in the roadside and a small wave of water splashes up, catching Trixie square in the front and soaking her pale dress through.

 

Katya starts to snort out a chuckle and then catches herself, immediately clucking over Trixie and asking “Are you okay?”

 

“Sure, just cold. And wet. And annoyed. Oh man, today SUCKS.” Trixie pouts, defeated.

 

“Here – you can't walk around like this, your panties are showing through!” Katya says, her voice dropping comically to a whisper on the word _panties._ She twirls the red cape off, revealing a skintight bodysuit. Her body is very slim, and her breasts, while smaller than Trixie's, are full and high on her chest, swelling into cleavage peeking over the scoop-neck of the suit. Trixie isn't staring, she promises. 

 

“Take this. And now, this is my ride. Goodbye Barbie!” she declares, draping the scarlet material over Trixie's shoulders and sprinting on to the bus in two strides of her high heels. Trixie hasn't had time to say anything, and as Katya winks at her through the bus window, she feels her manicured fingers curl into a shy half-wave at the departing woman until she is visible only as a blonde-and-red blue against the glass, and then not at all. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trixie can't stop thinking about Katya. 
> 
> Featuring: cake baking, cape cleaning, ANTM and bus stop flirting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading Chapter One, especially to the people who commented and left Kudos. It really is very encouraging so please say hello if you like this fic :)
> 
> I saw Trixie live last week and she was amazing, and I'm seeing Katya next week, so I'm basically floating down the river of Trixya at the moment. Woo!

Trixie's never been less excited to have a couple of days off. Sure, a break from the constant customer interaction is always welcome, and God knows Trixie needs a day or two per week to let her skin rest without too much product on there, but she can't stop thinking about Katya, the eccentric woman from the bus stop. She gets a warm little buzz in the pit of her stomach when she thinks about her, like the feeling of driving over a speed bump too quickly.

 

She tells herself not to be a loser – she always does this, gets hung up on a maybe, lets herself feel excited about somebody she's hardly even met, has half a relationship in her head before they've even seen one another twice. Trixie is into someone so rarely that when someone does catch her interest, it's hard for them to lose it again, to her absolute peril; she feels too deeply, and despite all her snippy cynicism, she's actually boringly romantic when it comes to matters of the heart.

 

And Katya is exciting. She's beautiful and mysterious and quirky, brimming with infectious, chaotic energy. Trixie stops herself short of actually putting Katya's red cape on – that would be creepy now the need for it has passed, obviously – but she does wash it and hang it nicely to dry without creasing, brushing out the furry trim so that it won't matt. It's a bit sad that she enjoys doing it, likes the sensation of taking care of something for someone other than herself. Since college she's felt a little isolated, and although she loves having her own apartment, she misses the easy company of her old room-mates Kim and Pearl, that companionable, domestic feeling of having other women around the place making one another cups of tea and binge-watching reality TV.

 

She tries to make the most of her me-time, taking a long bath with an obnoxiously fizzy pink bath bomb from Lush that makes her smell like a candy store and slathering employee-discounted face packs on her tired skin. Trixie knows how important a good canvas is to creating a gorgeous picture, and tries her best to take care of her face (even if this did lead Pearl to make fun of her, calling her _High Maintenance Barbie_ on more than one occasion). Smelling great and feeling boneless and relaxed, Trixie wraps her hair in a fluffy pink towel and pads her way into the kitchen area of her open-plan living space.

 

Distraction is the name of the game here: she absolutely can't allow herself to mope around thinking about a complete stranger, no matter how nice her smile was, and the devil does make work for idle hands. Baking a cake with trashy TV on in the background is the perfect solution – brainless, fun and structured. She gets to work, breaking eggs and sifting flour, creaming butter and sugar together until she has a smooth, simple sponge mix rising in her oven and a sufficiently cake-mix-covered spoon to sit down with while it cooks. She's watching an old series of top model, and one of the contestants is a cute Russian girl with a strong accent. She sounds like a really exaggerated version of Katya, and Trixie wonders if that's what the inflection she noticed in the other woman's voice was. _Oh great,_ she thinks, sighing, _I can't even distract myself with food and Tyra Banks. Trixie Mattel, you might just be fucked, my dear._

 

The cake finally rises and Trixie ices it, not really leaving enough time for it to cool beforehand. The royal icing goes a little runny and drips onto the plate below, but nobody else is going to see it anyway. She cuts herself a generous piece and then wraps the rest in cling film before sealing it in a cute cake tin Kim brought her back from Korea one time back in college. The little cartoon animals on the lid smile winningly up at her as she makes sure the tin's closed tight and she deliberately doesn't think about how nice it would be to have somebody around to share it with.

 

As she curls up with her slice of cake on the couch, Trixie lets the voices on her TV wash over her, like a little blanket of noise. She really does feel very relaxed, and when she nods off, little cake fork clattering to the carpeted floor, nobody is around to pull a blanket over her lap.

 

***

 

It's a thankfully dry morning on her next day back in work, and Trixie takes full advantage of the optimal atmospheric conditions, puffing her hair up into a thick blonde cloud that falls in waves down one pink-clad shoulder. If she takes slightly more time picking her outfit, and getting her face perfect, she's certainly not admitting to it. In fact, she doesn't let herself get too excited about the possibility of bumping into Katya at the bus stop again, tightly controlling the slight swirl of butterflies in her tummy that rises to action as she rounds every corner on the walk there, red cape hanging over her rounded forearm as she bobs purposefully to her destination.

 

She doesn't really acknowledge that she'd been hoping to bump into Katya until the skinny blonde doesn't show up, and Trixie tries to rationalise away the sinking feeling when her bus arrives with no chaotic, scarlet-swathed interruptions. Katya never said she'd be back at the stop, of course, but Trixie had assumed that she'd be there fairly regularly, or surely she'd have left a forwarding address for her cape? _Maybe she isn't 9-5_ , Trixie reasons, _she did seem pretty unusual_.

 

Whatever the reason, Trixie works hard to be energetic and friendly at work, refusing to allow herself to be as pathetic as she knows moping would make her. She smiles at girls who pop their gum and want a free brow shaping, at women with invalid coupons and Groupon deals they haven't printed properly. She smiles at the roving packs of teenage boys that stroll by as lunch-time approaches, having long realised that the makeup store was a good place to gawk at chicks in their natural habitat. She eats her packed lunch alone in the break room with her 'Badass Ladies' Spotify playlist blaring through her tinny headphones (Trixie has never managed to wear over-ear headphones, tending as they do to flatten one's bouffant) and, when the working day ends and a September chill is falling on the city, Trixie leaves with aching cheeks, feeling more tired than she has any right to.

 

She isn't, then, expecting the persistent clicking of high heels on pavement that signals Katya's arrival at the bus stop, not really hearing it over Stevie Nicks anyway, and she's only made aware of the other woman's presence when a long-fingered hand taps on her shoulder and Trixie whips around to see a grinning red mouth set in Katya's long, pale face like a jewel.

 

“Barbie!” the smaller woman enthuses, looking friendly but a little nervous, as if she's unsure Trixie is going to greet her back. Trixie swallows the butterflies, which are tapping their teeny pink wings against the inside of her oesophagus, and ignores the sudden blooming of perspiration her dumb nervous body decides is appropriate. (“When I'm nervous, I sweat,” she once told Kim, “which is stupid, because if I'm all slippery how is anyone gonna _catch_ me?!”).

 

“Katya! Hi, hello...hey...” she splutters, grateful that her blush is already painted on, concealing the real one that is almost certainly spreading across her full cheeks. Trixie is smart, and she can be so cool and cutting, but around girls she likes, she's just such a dork.

 

It's a good thing Katya's a little off-centre herself, and doesn't seem to notice that Trixie's tripping over herself. If she does notice, she's just too polite to say anything, which is still a win in Trixie's book. Trixie begins “So, I have your...” and trails off, realising her mistake. “Oh shit, Katya, I brought your cape with me in case I saw you and I totally left it in the break room at work.” She pouts a little, annoyed at herself and hoping that Katya doesn't think she's some kind of garment-stealing maniac, deliberately standing by puddles and hoping women will offer her their pieces, never to see them again.

 

“Oh, don't worry Barbie, I will be at the stop again on Thursday – are you here every day?” Katya asks with a smile, and Trixie answers that yes, she's here most days, except Sunday and Monday, when she's off. “There we go then. You are here Tuesday to Saturday, I am here Tuesday and Thursday. Plenty of time to get it back to me – And I'm not made of capes you know!” She winks as she says this, wiggling her ring-encrusted fingers down the front of the black and white chevron print fabric draped over her tiny torso today.

 

“Awesome, sorry about that girl, I'll definitely remember to bring it Thursday. Thanks so much for saving my dignity last week”

 

“I'm not a girl, honey, I'm a woman!” Katya exclaims with a grin, “and you seem like you lost your dignity years ago, clown-lady”. Trixie is instantly taken aback, but the smile on Katya's face and the familiarity implicit in good-natured mocking sets a little warm glow alight in her chest.

 

“Oh, what, like you're not just jealous of _this,_ I know your game...” she counters, gesturing to her own face, schooled into a sombre expression.

 

The two women stand together for a good five minutes, trading banter and playful insults as if they've met hundreds of times. With each little barb, Trixie is feeling Katya out, seeing how far her sense of humour will reach – Trixie knows her humour can come-off as mean or catty, and she has to be careful not to actually insult some of her more sensitive friends. Every little jab, Katya has something equally hilarious and inappropriate to volley back, and Trixie finds herself truly laughing for the first time in months. The instant rightness of her repartee with Katya is unbelievable, and Trixie wants desperately to get her number or email so she has something to nail down and keep – some way to chart Katya on the map of her life, make her a known land. She's too chickenshit to do it though, to make the first move and ask – the fear of her intentions being mistaken, or even worse, of them not being, is strong.

 

Trixie's been into enough straight girls to know how thankless and miserable a close friendship with somebody you want but will never, ever get can be. She also doesn't want to come across as predatory or weird if Katya's straight and thinks Trixie's hitting on her (which she might be, but come on). Katya doesn't give off any overwhelming vibes either way, simultaneously seeming to say literally every thought that passes through her head and to play her cards close to her (generous) chest. In the end doubt wins out, and Trixie resigns herself to not asking as she sees Katya's bus looming down the far end of the street.

 

Katya sees it too, melodramatically exclaiming “Oh, here comes the bus to drag me back into my pit of torment. Don't mourn me Barbie, live on - it's what I would have wanted!”. Getting into her bit, she takes Trixie's face gently in both her hands, looking seriously into her eyes and intoning “Avenge me, Trixie. Tell me you will”. She doesn't release her grip until Trixie stops giggling and agrees that she will destroy Katya's earthly enemies; at this acquiescence, Katya plants a big, red kiss on Trixie's forehead, leaning up on tippy-toes to do so.

 

“You're a good woman, Barbie,” Katya affirms, trotting quickly onto the waiting bus with enormous flair. Trixie is still grinning like an idiot at the (joking, but still welcome) contact when she hears Katya yelling through the open bus window “Tell my wife I loved her! Bury me in red!” as the vehicle pulls away.

 

She smiles stupidly the whole journey home, her forehead pink with the ghost of Katya's grin.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Trixie likes her coffee sweet, but Katya prefers things digusting and bitter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the support! I saw Katya last week and she was E V E R Y T H I N G. I'm super busy at work right now but I have a whole two weeks off from Christmas Eve and I'll be working on this - I have quite a long series planned. Please comment because it's incredibly motivating. You can also follow this series at ArtificialQueens on tumblr.

Thursday morning sees Trixie up bright and early, face done and out of the house a whole twenty minutes earlier than normal. She wishes this wasn't because the promise of seeing Katya fills her with twinkly little butterflies, that she didn't feel borderline teenage brushing out her hair and choosing her commute playlist this morning. Trixie's always been proud of her look being all about what she wants – about how she wants to look, nothing to do with other people – but she can't deny that looking good today was an especial priority, or that the reason for that was Katya.

 

She can't believe she's letting herself get so soppy about a woman she barely knows, who she isn't even sure is into chicks. This way danger lies, and doesn't she know it – she's been down the 'crushing on my cute straight friend' road before, and she's not keen to drive down it again. Something about Katya feels so exciting, though, like Trixie already knows her and is just waiting to remember. She's like one of those mugs that look blank, but when you pour hot water into them the picture is slowly revealed – it's all there already. They just need to warm it up.

 

Trixie grabs the tote bag containing Katya's freshly laundered cape and heads out the door. She makes it a couple of blocks before she gets nervous – Katya is _always at_ the stop before she arrives. What if turning up early makes her look like some kind of over-eager creeper? Trixie's never been one for fashionably late – she's actually a pretty punctual kind of girl – but the embarrassment of seeming too keen steers her into a Starbucks en route, and by the time she's got her obnoxiously sweetened, cream-topped coffee to go, she's pretty much making her usual time to the stop.

 

The familiar plumes of smoke streaming between Katya's glossy lips greet her as she arrives, the smaller woman widening her eyes in greeting as Trixie approaches. Trixie presents the tote bag to Katya with an extravagant gesture, sticking her rounded arm straight out in front of her. Katya is altogether more casual, grabbing the bag from beneath with both hands, half-smoked cig still balanced between two elongated fingers.

 

“You brought it! You're back with mommy now, little cape, don't be frightened. You're safe, you're home, you... smell incredible! Fuck Barbie, this is the best this garment will ever smell. Did you wash it, or does being in your pink presence just make everything cuter and cleaner?” Katya's bunching the material in her grip and inhaling exaggeratedly, and she's joking, but it still makes Trixie's heart soar when Katya says nice things about her.

 

“Yeah well, no doubt it'll smell like an ashtray fucked a hooker again in a couple of days, don't worry” she responds, making Katya cackle and call her a bitch, spilling a little ash onto the fabric in the process, thus making Trixie's prophecy one of her all-time most rapidly self-fulfilling. 

 

Katya continues, warmly, “Maybe being around you will make me cuter too, huh? I'll be in a pink nightgown by Friday...” she trails off, and Trixie is very certainly _not_ thinking about Katya all soft and dressed for bed. She isn't. 

 

Much. 

 

“I hate to break it to you, girl, but that's just fabric conditioner. Not my feminine mystique or some bullshit. Available at all good retailers, 5.99, blah blah...” At this Katya grins and gets that look in her eyes that Trixie is coming to see as an indicator something adorably mischievous is about to be said. 

 

She hams up her accent a little, responding “Oh but Barbie, my feminine mystique  _does_ cost 5.99”.

 

“Oh? I think I saw that inside a phone box somewhere,”

 

“Yeah bitch, your dad left me a great Yelp review”

 

“Stupid”

 

“Cunt”

 

The insults sound so affectionate that Trixie blushes slightly, aware of how fond her tone of voice is and a bit scared she's giving herself away. A brief silence falls, broken by Katya abruptly asking “Is that coffee?” in a hopeful tone. Trixie rolls her eyes and answers “No bitch, it's fucking paint thinner. Of course it's coffee, it says  _Starbucks Coffee_ on the cup”. Katya affects a strong East Coast accent and responds “I never said I could read, dumbass”, making little grabby-hands gestures at Trixie's cup.

 

“Use your words, Katya”

 

“May I please have a sip of your coffee, O generous one?”

 

“Sure thing. Make sure you don't give me a cold sore though bitch, there are some things lip gloss can't fix...” she says, handing over the Styrofoam cup and watching incredulously as Katya takes one big mouthful before instantly performing one of the most ridiculously dramatic spit-takes Trixie's ever seen. 

 

“What the fuck is this?! I think I just developed a couple of cavities. And diabetes. Types one _and_ two!”

 

“Gee Katya, do you think the coffee's too sweet? Tell me how you really feel” Trixie asks her in an affected monotone, rolling her eyes a little in affectionate frustration. She takes the cup back from Katya, who immediately jams a cigarette between her painted lips and lights it for dear life, as if she wants to get the syrupy taste out of her mouth as soon as possible. Trixie takes a sip, fitting her pink lips over the imprint of Katya's red ones, hoping it's not the only times their mouths meet. She catches that particular thought as it occurs, and immediately schedules in some much-deserved self-mockery. She really is fucking fifteen years old again, isn't she?

 

They chat easily for a few more minutes, Trixie mentally giving herself a gold star every time she gets Katya to do that wheezy-laugh thing she does when she's really tickled by something. Katya's bus, however, is becoming one of Trixie's least favourite things on the planet, and when it arrives she feels a slightly pathetic pang at their time hanging out being cut short again. Katya seems a little reluctant to get on board too, but she smiles and says “Hey, I'm coming back around five tonight to go home. Long day today, you think you'll be around?” and when Trixie answers that she'll probably be closer to quarter past the hour, depending on how long it takes her to pack up her station after work, the smaller woman seems at least a little pleased that they might bump into each other again later. 

 

Trixie's day passes slowly, waiting as she is to clock out and hopefully bump into Katya again. Since they met, time seems much more fluid, speeding up and stretching out depending on Trixie's mood, always too quick when they're together but dragging when they're apart. Trixie isn't even pretending she hasn't got it bad, now. The only real question mark is Katya, who seems at once to be an open book and an enigma. She says every single thing she thinks, but gets harder to work out each time she speaks: Trixie just can't figure her out. 

 

When the clock finally sees fit to strike five, Trixie shrugs on her jacket and makes her way to the stop at a leisurely pace, trying her best to keep at least a little dignity intact. She's rationalising, telling herself that she probably won't see Katya and that if she doesn't, it's fine. She forces herself not to speed up, not to rush to meet some stranger who may not even be at the end of the journey. She's so in her head that when she does arrive, she nearly walks straight into the petite blonde, who makes a startled little “Huh!” sound when Trixie nearly bowls her over. 

 

“The walk of a woman with lots of thoughts floating around her candy floss brain. I brought you this,” Katya says, offering her taller friend a take out coffee cup and continuing “I just told the guy to put in the most disgusting, rotted, five-year-old-palate combination of syrups and then add a few sachets of sweetener on top. It should be right”. Despite the mockery (or maybe because of it) Trixie is super touched that Katya picked her up a coffee even though they could have easily been at the stop at different times. “Aw Katya, my heart just grew three sizes,” she responds taking the cup in her manicured hand and smelling the sickly flavours wafting up with the steam “Oh my god, it doesn't even smell like a coffee. _So good_!” she enthuses, as Katya shakes her head and makes the sign of the cross with two of her fingers.

 

Although the last thing Trixie thinks Katya needs is caffeine, the noise she makes when she takes her first sip is everything. Trixie will buy her a hundred cups a day if she gets to listen to that dumb fake sexy groaning every time, and it will be totally worth it. Emboldened by the groaning, and reassured by the coffee-buying gesture – Katya clearly wants to be friends, at least – Trixie sucks it up and says “I'll get you a coffee next time. No sugar or anything. As disgusting and bitter as you want it. But like, in a venue with an actual roof and chairs that aren't plastic and covered in gum. Um, if you want?”.

 

There's a stomach churning moment of silence while Katya chews her lip, but then her face breaks into a wide grin and she says expansively “Why Barbie, of course – you had me at disgusting and bitter!”.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Trixie needs a little help from her friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks so much for the feedback again, it means a lot to me. Don't forget that this is being posted on AQ (artificialqueens) on Tumblr as well, which is a great community with loads of RPDR fic being published every day. I sat down today and planned this whole thing out and my estimation is that it'll be about 13 chapters in total including the ones I've already published. I have one/two 'in the bank' to publish this week while I'm still at work and then I'm off for Christmas so I can really get into the meat of the story. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Comments are Christmas gifts xx

Trixie's phone is burning a hole in her pocket. The two women had exchanged numbers after Trixie's (extremely brave, thank you very much) offer to grab coffee sometime, and all day at work she's been fighting the urge to text first. She's so conscious of trying not to be over-eager or clingy that she really doesn't want to be the one to do it, wants to see if Katya actually wants to hang out enough to go first – it's like the annoying games her friends play with guys, except based almost entirely in fear rather than coyness.

 

By her lunch break, Trixie's so tired of pulling out her iPhone at every phantom buzz that she stashes her phone in her jacket pocket for the rest of her shift – out of sight, out of mind. She's half-successful in making herself forget that she's waiting for a text, convincing herself that she isn't in fact some girl-crazy psycho, until work ends and she turns it back on to a volley of buzzing notifications.

 

**5 Unread Messages**

 

**Katya:** Hello! When is good for coffee? 

**Katya:** I am free at odd times so probably best to plan around your work.

**Katya:** I am free at odd times so probably best to plan around your work.

**Katya:** Shit did that send twice? Argh. Sorry. Bye!

 

**Kim:** Whatsup girl [heart emoji]?! Haven't spoken to you for a minute. Want a Skype session soon? [heart eyes emoji] Love you xxxxxxxxxx 

 

Trixie grins at Katya's slapdash approach to texting and at how easily she can hear Kim's voice in her text. She answers her best friend first,

 

**Trixie:** Heyyyy girl <3 Yeah sure, I'd love to!

 

She pauses for a second, chewing her lip. It would be good to chat about this Katya thing with someone, not that there's much to talk about at this stage. She doesn't want to make a big deal out of it by making a point of bringing it up with her friends, but the only other person she speaks to regularly is Katya, and she's not exactly in a place to be a sounding board. Her shiny nails clicking against the glass screen, she adds:

 

**Trixie:** Got some stuff to chat about actually, Skype sounds great. When are you free? [Two little pink hearts emoji]

 

She waits until she's at the Katya-less bus stop before replying to the other woman's messages, mulling over how best to answer her. Trixie's always been over-analytical about these things, but the last couple of years she's become even more cautious.

 

**Trixie:** Yes, you did send it twice [tongue sticking out emoji] don't pretend you weren't just desperate for attention! I'm off Sat, Sun and Mon this week cause I covered Vi's shift for her last week, so the world's my oyster. Down to you!

 

She types a kiss at the end of the text, replaces it with a smiley face and deletes that, plumps for the heart-eyes-emoji and finally settles for just the exclamation point. The politics of emoji placement is a field of etiquette not yet documented as thoroughly as Trixie would like, and she's almost certain the wrong one would spell doom for the whole damn thing.

 

She hears back from Kim first, just as she's nearing her stop home. As they're both free this evening, they decide they'll have a video chat when Trixie gets home; when she does, she sifts through her mail (nothing exciting, just bills and a couple of take-out menus that she stashes in a drawer) and heads to her room. After a brief shower, during which she removes her makeup, Trixie wiggles into her fluffy powder-pink onesie. It has bunny ears on the hood and is the comfiest thing ever made by man – it was a Christmas gift from Kim and Pearl when they'd shared a house in college, back when they'd often spend lazy evenings in their respective PJs watching movies with snacks and a bottle of wine. Wearing it always makes Trixie feel nostalgic, both happy and lonely: it reminds her of a lovely time in her life, but also makes her miss those close bonds with other women and the emotional support and love she always had around her back then. Trixie's childhood wasn't great, and Kim and Pearl felt like a little family to her. 

 

Grabbing her pink netbook, Trixie opens Skype so she'll hear when Kim calls. While she waits, she pops a bowl of (sweet, obviously) popcorn and pours herself a glass of wine. She knows it's pretty basic to exclusively drink rose, but she's never claimed to be a sommelier and that sort of classist wine-snob bullshit can quite frankly fuck off. By the time she's comfy on her couch, the familiar  _ beep-bop  _ of an incoming Skype call is ringing out through her slightly tinny laptop speakers. She presses the 'Accept' button and Kim's familiar, adorable little face is smiling at her through the screen. 

 

They chat like they've never been apart, catching up on family life (not a huge amount to report either way – Trixie and Kim are both a bit distant from their parents, for one reason or another) and gossiping about celeb news. Kim's always had this amazing way of seeming completely serious and oblivious while she makes the most cutting remarks. It's a trait Trixie really admires, and something that always cracks her up, and before she knows it, they've spent a whole forty-five minutes chatting about basically nothing, both sipping their respective drinks and cackling like witches.

 

“Anyway, what was it you wanted to chat about with me, boo?” Kim asks Trixie, tilting her head to one side, “Everything okay over there? You know we miss you!”. Kim's concern is touching, and Trixie knows that she and Pearl do worry about her here alone, even if it's hard to stay in touch now they all have busy lives and jobs. It's funny, cause they only met each other through Trixie, who needed two girls to fill the cute little off-campus home she wanted to rent after freshman year, but Kim and Pearl have stayed friends and currently rent a place together while Kim teaches cosmetology and Pearl DJs in her local scene. It makes Trixie feel like a bit of a failure that her two best friends are more successful than she is, that they don't seem to have been caught in the same rut as she has, but she's also fiercely proud of both of them.

 

“Oh, it's nothing really, I dunno why I mentioned it...” she begins, before Kim cuts her off with “Oh no girl, you don't get to do that shit with me! I don't live with you any more but I won't let you pretend you're not feeling something when you are, bitch!”. Trixie loves her for that – that Kim always sees through Trixie's wall of sarcasm and refuses to let her avoid sincerity even though it's icky and uncomfortable. She tells Kim all of it – the umbrella, the puddle incident, the uncertainty over Katya's intentions and Trixie's fear of coming on too strong or barking up the wrong tree. Kim listens and doesn't try to talk over her or interject, and when Trixie concludes with “...and we're meant to get coffee but she hasn't texted in like, three hours and I don't know what to do!”, Kim nods her head and thinks for a second before she answers.

 

“Well, I don't think you're being crazy, you haven't really dated much since – you know, and I know how you are, like how serious you get about people. I think being careful is sensible, but you should try and enjoy it too, you know? The beginning is meant to be the fun bit. The worst that can happen is you get a new, cool friend, right?”.

 

Kim's right, of course, but Trixie doesn't really want Katya to be her friend. She has a total, hopeless crush on her. She's never been one for dating or playing the field. Trixie likes not having to hide how much you care about someone or play it cool, likes the security of having one person at the centre of her life she can just be herself with. It's not cool, Trixie knows it's square and conventional and that she's only 24 and should be out enjoying herself, but that's how she's wired and there's not much she can do about it. She finds the nervy uncertainty of first meeting to be uncomfortable and difficult, much closer to fear than excitement, especially since, as Kim so elegantly sidestepped, her last relationship hurt her badly when it ended, in ways she's struggled to come back from. Trixie's a lot more guarded than she was in college, and something about meeting someone she actually likes has brought a lot of weird insecurity up in her.

 

She's still frowning at her own worried reflection in the dimmed laptop screen when her phone buzzes her out of her thoughts. For a second she feels too anxious to look, but then she shakes her head, tells herself how dumb she's being and slides her manicured thumb over the lock screen.

 

**Katya:** I am, of course, desperate for your attention. The world is our oyster and we will suck it from its shell together (does that sound gross? I hope so). Saturday works for me, what time do you roll out of bed at the weekend?

 

If Katya wasn't so odd, Trixie would be certain that text was deliberately flirtatious, but the smaller woman is so quirky all the time that it's hard to tell. Trixie bites the bullet (potentially buoyed up by the couple of glasses of wine she sipped whilst chatting with Kim) and answers her.

 

**Trixie:** Bitch I'm not sucking any oysters, accompanied or alone, before 11am on a Saturday.

 

Katya answers almost immediately.

 

**Katya:** Pfft. You are lazy and decadent. Where would you like to meet? Have you been to Kardomah? They have brunch (no oysters, I promise).

 

**Trixie:** Yeah :) Brunch sounds like a plan. I've never been in, but I know where it is. It's the one with the blue door that's always full of hipsters, right?

 

**Katya:** I am wounded, Trixie. But yes, that's the one. See you there at 11:30?

 

**Trixie:** Sure! See you then xx

 

She types the kisses automatically and hits 'Send' without even thinking. Trixie then proceeds to spend the next sixty seconds quietly having a meltdown over her sudden introduction of simulated affection into the mix – is it presumptuous? Will Katya think that Trixie's madly in love with her and cancel their plans? Is Trixie going to have to switch bus stops?! Her moment of overheated nervousness is only ended by Katya's reply, which blooms into light on the phone screen like the stomach of a firefly in the dim living room.

 

**Katya:** Okay, Barbie. It's a date xxx


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroines finally go on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback guys! Nearly done with work for 2016 so expect more frequent updates as we move into the main meat of the story now... things really take off from here as far as actual things happening rather than endless character stuff.
> 
> Enjoy, comments are Christmas gifts (as always) xxx

Trixie will never, ever understand how a day at work can go by as slowly as Friday does. She's so on edge about their probably-date on Saturday that she simultaneously wants it to be right now, and to just never happen. At least she's busy: she focusses on the women who come into the store, and as the day gets later, more and more of them are girls getting their faces ready for big nights out on the town, which Trixie always enjoys. Their excitement and enthusiasm usually makes them good customers, open to buying a couple of products to touch-up their looks as their nights drag later, and friendly and chatty with Trixie while she works.

 

She's talking to one of the girls – Naomi, she's called, super young but gorgeous – about her planned club crawl, when she realises how long it's been since she went clubbing herself. “Wow, you know what?” she asks her customer rhetorically, “I haven't been on a proper night out for like, at least a year. Not since I moved here”.

 

She and Naomi chat about how wild it is that Trixie's such a shut-in (thanks, world), and when the younger girl leaves, she gives Trixie a generous tip, telling her to 'buy herself a damn drink' with it. Trixie's cleaning her brushes when her colleague, Violet, sidles up to her. They don't know each other too well – they're friendly enough at work, but Violet always seems a little unapproachable and cold. She still gets a load of clients cause her look is _sickening_ , but she never really gossips with them or makes small-talk – just hums to herself and occasionally instructs them to turn their heads or close their eyes when her steering hands don't prompt them to do so wordlessly. 

 

“Trixie, we've never spent much time together, but you've lived here over a year and never been out? That's just too tragic. I'm going clubbing this weekend with some of my friends from home – you should tag along. Before you die alone in your apartment or something”. This is abrupt, but Trixie's a master of not saying what she really means, and she can see right to the core of Violet's offer. It's kind, as warm as Violet can be, and super sweet in its own twisted way. 

 

“Which night are you going?” she asks the younger girl, and Violet tells her that they're hitting a few local bars tomorrow before heading into the clubs later on. Trixie's heart momentarily leaps as she thinks about her plans for tomorrow, remembering her planned date with Katya. Seeing as it's brunch, it's not like they're going to be going back to either of their apartments for wild first-date sex (plus, Trixie is really not about that anyway), so she'll probably be free. 

 

She asks her colleague “Can I say maybe? I'd really like to, but I have a date that day and I wanna see how that goes before I commit for certain”. Violet's eyes light up at the word date, and she immediately tells Trixie that it's fine, asking her about six million questions about her plans – what her date is like (Violet seems very careful to use pronouns that could apply to anyone, which Trixie has mad respect for), where they're going, and what Trixie plans on wearing. They agree that a brunch date does limit both wardrobe and makeup choices, as broad daylight is way less forgiving than a dim, evening restaurant or bar, and, as Violet puts it, “You can just, like, be way less of a slut, which sucks!”. 

 

At the end of her shift, she swaps numbers with Violet, feeling pleased that she's made some plans. She's definitely been too isolated since she left her girls, and even if they don't end up being best friends, it's nice to have people to spend time with, especially to blow off some steam on the town. 

 

When she gets home, it's full-on pre-date ritual time. Trixie washes her face and then slaps on a face pack, letting it sit on her skin while she microwaves a pot of wax. She blasts Loretta Lyn and sings along as she smooths the strips onto her legs, the music drowning out her little yelps when she tears them off again to reveal shiny, smooth skin. When she's done, she takes a long, steamy shower, washing off her face mask and shaving whichever areas she's just not brave enough to smear hot wax on. She doesn't think anyone's going to be seeing her newly hairless thighs, of course, but it's all psychological. If she feels primed and ready, she's less likely to make a nervous tit of herself tomorrow with Katya. 

 

When she's cleansed, toned, exfoliated and buffed every available area of skin, and painted her nails a blue-based hot pink shade that she got from work (hello, employee discount), Trixie realises that it's still super early, like 7pm, so she climbs into her bed and watches some frothy TV talent show for a couple of hours while she pointedly doesn't text Katya. At 9pm, she's about to give in when her phone  _rings_ . It's not buzzing, so it's not a text. She grabs it in alarm, knowing that only family, or friends in emergencies, call rather than texting, but when she accepts the call, a familiar female voice sounds, her accent somehow amplified without her being there in person.

 

“Hello, Barbie”

 

“Oh, hey! Um. Everything okay?”

 

“Yes, why would it not be? I'm just checking we're still on for tomorrow. Kardomah at 11:30?”

 

“Oh, yeah! Of course.”

 

“Then get your beauty sleep. No sleeping in and standing me up. Okay?” There's a smile in her voice and it makes the corners of Trixie's mouth slide into a grin too, and she rolls her eyes, answering “Sure thing Mom, I'll remember to clean behind my ears and brush my teeth too”.

 

“You're a very mean lady, Trixie. See you tomorrow”

 

“See you!” Trixie calls, and then hangs up abruptly. Just talking to Katya on the phone makes her stomach churn with nerves, makes her feel like she's sixteen and being asked to a dance. She tuts out loud at her own patheticness and then turns out the light, doing her best to get to sleep despite the tumult in her abdomen. 

 

She surprisingly sleeps right through, and her phone alarm wakes her in the morning with just enough time to get her hair, makeup and outfit down before she needs to grab the bus and walk to the cafe to meet Katya. Kardomah is just outside town, a little further out than Trixie's place is, in one of those scruffy-trendy neighbourhoods where artists seem to congregate. 

 

When she's nearly there, she glances at her phone, realising she's managed to be early  _again._ She's about to pass the cafe and walk around the block before coming back when she sees Katya, standing outside Kardomah draped in a long-sleeved mid-calf dress in a busy, 70s-inspired chevron print. Her boots are brown suede and she's wearing a large, beaten-leather necklace that sits in the centre of her chest like armour. Her hair is down, falling in waves over her shoulders, and her makeup is done the same way it has been every other time they've met – expressive raccoon eyes and meticulously lined red lips. She looks stunning, and very serious, her eyes downcast as she smokes her cigarette with slightly creepy intensity. 

 

Trixie is so pleased not to be the earliest one, and she walks over to the smaller woman at a confident pace, smiling and giving her a little half-wave when Katya's head turns towards the clicking noise of Trixie's modest white heels on the paved ground. Katya has a face that is transformed by smiling, and as her warm grin of greeting breaks like a wave across her face, any tension melts away. She's beautiful when she looks serious and stony, but when she smiles, Trixie's heart does a little dance and gets down on one knee. She's totally fucked.

 

“I didn't think you'd be early, or I wouldn't be smoking! Sorry!” Katya says, looking sheepish, and when Trixie looks puzzled, Katya explains “It's rude to smoke on a date with a non-smoker! I think. I'm fairly sure that's a thing...” she trails off, looking thoughtful, and Trixie just laughs and reminds Katya that she's chain-smoked through literally every meeting the two have ever had. Katya has to concede that this is true, and so she smiles and says “Follow me”, beckoning Trixie with one long finger and holding the door open for her.

 

Conversation is light and easy as they order brunch – Katya's so skinny that Trixie suspected she didn't eat a great deal, but she orders one of the heavier meals on the menu, while Trixie sticks to the vegetarian option that she thinks she has the least chance of making a mess with. They both order coffee, which they sip gratefully as their orders are prepared, chatting easily about the venue and how their respective Fridays went. Katya mentions being 'in the studio' for a few hours and Trixie asks her “The studio? Are you a model or something?”, then feels very embarrassed and silly when Katya blurts out a peal of surprised laughter.

 

“Oh my gosh, Trixie, no, I'm not a model. Thank you though,” She adds kindly, obviously seeing Trixie's blush and not wanting her to feel dumb, “I am an artist. I share a studio in town with a few other people, my canvases are too big to keep at home”. Trixie is super impressed, and she starts to ask Katya about her art, whether she does it full time or not, and the sort of work she does.

 

“Well, yes, I am currently only doing art. I have had other jobs, but at the moment I am concentrating on painting and multimedia. Sometimes I teach yoga as well” she tells Trixie, who immediately focuses on not picturing Katya doing downward-facing-dog in yoga pants. “Actually, I painted these the other year, I was having an expressionist phase” she says, in the casual way someone else might refer to having stubbed their toe last night or seeing a mildly interesting bit of weather.

 

Trixie gazes around the walls of Kardomah, which have huge, floor-to-ceiling canvases every metre or so, five in total. They're gorgeous and strange, each with a different dominant jewel tone and lots of strange textures in the paint. They look like they almost have figures in them, like there's an image under there hidden by mist or smoke – when Trixie focuses hard on one, it feels like a picture is coming into shape, but when she blinks it recedes again into the mass of shape and colour. 

 

“You seriously made these? Katya, they're beautiful!” she enthuses, blown away by Katya's talent. Trixie knows she's not exactly dumb herself, but seeing what Katya is capable of makes her feel like she shouldn't be here. “Thank you,” Katya says, and she must be very perceptive, because she reaches out one ring-studded hand and gestures at Trixie's face “but look, you paint too! And much better than me”. Trixie can't help but answer Katya's infectious, honest grin, and one or both of them must lean in a fraction of an inch, because Katya's gesturing hand bumps very lightly into the side of Trixie's face, like she is cupping it in the most gentle way possible. 

 

She doesn't move it immediately, and Trixie feels her cheeks flush a little as their eyes meet, Katya's piercingly blue. There's not a hint of a joke in them now. They stay frozen in utter silence, Trixie scared to even breathe in case she shatters whatever this fragile suspension is, and it must only be seconds but it feels agonisingly long, every centimetre of Trixie's body tingling with nerves and her stomach lurching horribly at what is hardly even a touch. 

 

When the food comes and the moment breaks, Trixie is almost relieved – it was pretty intense, and she keeps glancing at Katya to see if she's freaking out even a tenth as much as Trixie is. Her expression is unfathomable, and Trixie once again is amazed by how anyone can be so open and so hard to read at the same time. 

 

The rest of brunch passes without any more heart-stopping moments, but they have fun – once they start eating, Trixie rallies, and by the end of brunch the two women are laughing so loudly that they're attracting dodgy glances from their fellow patrons. Trixie tells Katya all about college, about Kim and Pearl and how she didn't necessarily plan on painting faces at a makeup counter after graduation, not that there's anything wrong with her job. 

 

Katya nods understandingly at this, and tells Trixie stories about how she had about five different careers in mind before she decided not to do any of them and became a painter. “A lot of it is luck, Trixie. You find what you're going to do at your own pace, and it's not always when you're 24. I'm in my early thirties and I'm still working out what I want. You just have to learn to be okay with the other versions of yourself – the Trixie who is an actress, or the Trixie who is Dolly 2.0, or the Trixie who – I don't know, the Trixie who's a stripper – you have to be able to let them die, because deciding to do one thing is as good as killing the others. That stopped me for a long time, but you just have to murder those bitches and do what's in front of you. It's some fig-tree bullshit, but it's true. And that's Katya's philosophy corner done for today, I swear”. 

 

Trixie just stares at her in admiration. She's so smart and pretty and Trixie knows she sounds like a kid with a crush but she just  _wants_ Katya really, really badly. She feels like she'd burst into flames if she touched her, but would also do the same if she didn't. She fronts well though, diverting the conversation to less serious things and making Katya flap her hands around from laughter. 

 

When they get up to leave, Katya insists on paying, even though it was Trixie who asked her out. “You pay next time” she tells her with a shooing motion, scooting Trixie away from the till as she hands over a couple of bills. Trixie just nods, pleased that Katya's assuming there'll be a next time at all. When they leave Kardomah, Katya asks Trixie which way she's going, and Trixie points to the bus stop across the road. Katya's going in the same direction, so she walks with Trixie to the stop and they stand a little awkwardly waiting for the bus that will pass by Trixie's place and take Katya to her connecting bus bound for the studio. 

 

Their hands graze a little as they stand side-by-side, and Trixie keeps trying to summon her courage to just turn and kiss the smaller woman, every inhale a conjuration of inner strength. The bus arriving thwarts her, and whatever tension hangs between the two women seems to be broken as soon as they board; they chat and laugh, and Trixie is halfway home on her own before she realises in disappointment that neither of them ever did lean in.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is FINALLY some sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading so far guys... the slow burn finally burned faster. This chapter is a little longer than normal but like half of the word count is sex, so in my biased opinion it's worth it.
> 
> Comments are Christmas presents x

As soon as Trixie gets home, she starts to feel a creeping sense of worry. Why didn't Katya kiss her? Why didn't she kiss Katya? She'd been assuming it would just happen, that at any of the points when it just felt right, things would tip over into at least a warm peck, hopefully more. She's learned enough about Katya from their long bus-stop chats to know she's not exactly reserved, and she doesn't really seem like the type to save kissing for the second date.

 

Trixie's confidence is hard-won, and she spent years getting to where she is now: mostly happy with herself. A large part of that confidence comes from her decision years ago to just embrace her slightly unusual dress sense and to celebrate the soft curves of her body, wrapping herself in pinks and decorating her face like it's something to be proud of, because it is. She refuses to go down the road of jumping to mad conclusions, assuming that the two women didn't kiss because of anything wrong with, or ugly about, herself. She can't shake that slightly leaden feeling in her tummy that something is off, though, and she feels edgy and unsettled. Trixie hadn't really known how much she wanted to kiss Katya until it didn't happen, and she bitterly congratulates herself on her expertise in self-deception.

 

She shrugs off her cute, carefully selected, one hundred percent morning-date-appropriate outfit and lets down her hair, shaking it out and then sticking it up in a hot pink banana clip when it tickles the back of her neck irritatingly. She feels glum and disappointed, and even though it's silly to feel sad when they basically had a nice time together, she doesn't feel like doing anything except for a spot of light moping. She unpings her bra and slips into sweats and a hoodie, pulling the hood up for extra cosiness and pulling on a soft pair of baby pink Ugg boots. She looks basic as hell, she knows it, but she also knows when being comfy is more important than being on point, and this afternoon is definitely the former.

 

She's too full from her veggie brunch to indulge in any of her go-to comfort foods, so she settles for a soothing cup of tea instead, balancing it on her tummy with one hand as she slumps on the couch channel-hopping until she finds repeats of The Bachelor. Say whatever you want about the dumbing down of entertainment, but reality TV and crappy moods go together like nobody's business. After a brainless twenty minutes of viewing, Trixie's mind flicks back to the date, trying to work out exactly why she feels so blue – and whether she's justified in feeling that way.

 

She likes Katya, a lot, she has to admit to herself, and she had higher hopes for the morning lurking in the back of her brain than she'd let herself acknowledge. She feels a little rejected, and therefore a little undesirable, and she guesses the fact that she is honestly, truly ready for a relationship after a couple of years on her own just made her cross her manicured fingers that this might be one in the making. She's not sure when 'alone' became 'lonely' for her, but mulling it over as she sips her tea, she reflects that she probably _is_ pretty lonely in the city without her best friends and no significant other. Feeling low-key sad and sort of tired, Trixie drifts into a light, uncomfortable sleep on the couch. If she dreams, she doesn't remember it on waking – which comes with a jolt when her phone buzzes on the coffee table, and she hates herself a little bit for how her stomach flutters – just slighty – at the promise of an incoming text, the loud noise of the vibration against the glass surface making her jump into consciousness.

 

** Violet:  ** How was ur date? Still coming out for drinks or are u on the train to bone zone??? 

 

Trixie snorts a little at the text, even though she wishes it'd been from someone else. It's nice of Violet to check in, and the inappropriate question makes Trixie feel like they're actually friends rather than just coworkers. 

 

** Trixie:  ** Hmm. Sort of fun but then kind of went nowhere. Feeling a little bummed so maybe next time? Xx

 

Trixie feels a little bad for bowing out of their bar crawl, but she feels delicate and kind of vulnerable and not necessarily like she wants to pour herself into something tight and wiggle in a loud, dark room with sweaty strangers. 

 

** Violet:  ** Bitch then come out! No better cure for a bad date than looking sickening on the town with ur girls!

** Violet:  ** I mean, I know they're sort of my girls but u can totally share them! We'll get u white girl wasted & drown ur sorrows??? [winking emoji][champagne emoji][heart emoji] 

 

Trixie puts the phone down and walks into her bedroom, looking herself straight in the eye. Her makeup is a little smeared from resting her head in the crook of her arm and her hair's haphazardly clipped up, random blonde strands poking in every direction. Her sweats are comfy but super unflattering. She looks like some hungover sorority girl, not a cool, confident babe in her early (ok, mid) twenties.  _ Come on, Trixie, don't be a loser forever  _ she thinks to herself, reflecting on her lack of social life recently, the slump she's been in, the fact that at twenty four she should definitely be doing a bit more living than she currently is. Decisively, she retrieves her iPhone, texting:

 

** Trixie: ** I guess you're right! Where/when are you guys meeting up? Xxx

 

Violet texts back, seeming enthusiastic about Trixie's change of heart, and invites her to drink with her friends before the bar. Trixie declines, wanting time to get ready and look right, and also to psych herself up for a night out, but agrees to meet them at 8pm at a bar in the trendy bit of town, which Trixie is sort of relieved to see is on the opposite side to Kardomah, the too-fresh scene of sort-of failed romance. 

 

Now she's decided to go for it, Trixie whirrs into action. Blasting her favourite dumb getting-ready pop, she takes a quick shower, screaming along to ABBA to get herself pumped up. She cleanses her face, getting all the makeup off so she can start fresh, and slaps on some moisturiser. As she's letting that sink into her skin, she grabs a bottle of vodka, a tumbler and some mixer from the kitchen, fixing herself a drink and bringing the bottles into her room for easy top-ups as she gets ready. She starts on her face: primer, and then a thin layer of base to get things started. She'd gone easy on the makeup for her date this morning, wanting to look softer and more approachable and human. She's going full Trixie tonight, though, determined to feel her absolute best. 

 

Trixie takes her time: shaping her brows and filling them in with pomade, winging her eyes with her signature oversized kohl outlines and finishing her eyes off with gradiated pink eyeshadow and false lashes. Now her eyes are done, she doesn't have to worry about fallout, and she contours her face, highlighting her cute rounded cheeks and setting everything with power. She finishes with her lips, going for a nude with a slightly duskier liner. Taking in her own face in the mirror, Trixie feels excited about going out: she already looks great, and she hasn't even done her hair yet. 

 

She finishes her vodka and pours another, shimmying along to her music as she waits for her curlers to heat. She teases her hair into a big blonde cloud and curls the lengths, fluffing them with her fingers as she goes. When she's done, she accents the parting with a clip-in bow and beams at her reflection before strutting over to her clothes rails (she ran out of wardrobe space  _ ages  _ ago). She runs her hand along the garments, a rainbow of pastels and pinks, until she settles for a tight PVC number in hot pink. It's quite sexy, and Trixie's never actually been brave enough to wear it out – it was a black Friday impulse buy she just couldn't resist. Tonight's definitely the night, if there'll ever be one, she decides, wiggling into her stockings, which have thick, white lace tops to them, fulfilling the dual purpose of looking sexy as hell (even if Trixie's the only person who sees them) and preventing any unfortunate thigh-rubbing action, the only downside to having thick, strong thighs like Trixie's. 

 

She slips on a pair of pumps that she's almost certain she can dance in, and tucks a few bills and her ID into her purse for the night. She orders an Uber and then sides her locked iPhone into her bra, where she'll easily feel any notifications as soon as she gets them. She just has time to slam down another pre-clubbing drink before the cab comes, and in what feels like minutes she's flashing her ID at the nice man on the door and entering a very cool-looking bar. 

 

She spots Violet and her crew straight away, all perched around a circular booth table looking fucking deadly. Violet is wearing a latex bra and latex gloves that reach her upper arms with a matching pencil skirt and heels in all black. It's strange seeing her outside of work clothes for a second, but this definitely seems a lot more  _ her _ – she looks like she belongs in it. When she sees Trixie she squeals and says “ _ This _ is the bitch I told you about!” to her girls, thrusting a drink straw-first at Trixie with a wink. “Trixie, meet the girls – this is Max” she says, gesturing to a quirky looking girl with grey hair and an enigmatic smile, “and this is Fame” she finishes, smiling at the girl on her other side, who looks like she stepped straight out of a Vogue cover shoot in 1932. Of course Violet's friends are gorgeous, Trixie thinks, and then reminds herself that she is, too. 

 

“Date sucked then, huh?” Violet asks her over the thump of music, and Trixie purses her lips and nods slightly, explaining the whole saga to Violet in vague terms – she doesn't know why she's omitting names, exactly, just that she doesn't really want to say 'Katya' right now, which is pretty pathetic even by her standards. Fame offers, kindly, “Maybe she's into you still, though – there could be any reason for her not to kiss you!” and Max agrees, “Yes, darling, it's quite romantic when you think about it – maybe she's waiting!”. Trixie giggles, her heart warmed by the support and good intentions of her two new friends, and ruefully replies “She's never seemed like that type of girl, but thanks, guys.” she starts to suck on her straw and then squints into her glass, declaring “Oh shit, I'm outta booze. Bar?”.

 

The little crowd makes its way to buy drinks, opting for a round of something very pink in tall glasses. They snap a couple of selfies and Trixie feels good, enjoying hanging out with a gang of girls again, laughing and making fun of each other with no malice at all. She really likes their company and the night's going so well, there's no reason they shouldn't all hang out again some time. She's got a good buzz going, not hammered drunk but not sober either, and she decides to sit out of the next round of drinks – she doesn't want to lose the nice, warm, happy feeling she has now or ruin the night by being sloppy or embarrassing. 

 

By the time 11pm is drawing near, everyone's at least tipsy, and the girls are starting to contemplate heading to a club – Trixie's happy here, but Violet is definitely ready to party harder, and when a group of sexy guys in suits invite their little party on to a hot night spot, Trixie says her goodbyes, not really interested in being arm candy for some dude she's not into but also not wanting to hold her friends back from fun. They all hug her, giving her big, drunk smooches on her cheeks and adding her on Facebook on their phones before they'll let her leave. Promising she'll text to let them know she's home safe, Trixie exits the club into the dark, chilly night. 

 

She's in that weird half zone between sober and drunk, and she decides to sit down and cool off before she calls a cab to take her home. She didn't want to go clubbing with some guys, but she doesn't really feel ready to waste her buzz on going home and curling up in her empty apartment; for now she's content to soak up the Saturday night energy from the noisy streets around her, wishing she was a smoker like Katya so she had something to occupy her hands while she loitered.

 

Katya. Trixie's thinking about her, wondering if she's had enough to drink to get away with a quick text, but she doesn't want to be pathetic, or to make life awkward for herself. Thoughts of their underwhelmingly concluded date are mellowing her buzz, and she decides to walk to the taxi rank before she gets maudlin. Tottering down the dark street, Trixie keeps her eyes down – the last thing she wants is to make eye contact with some half-drunk frat boy in the street, or really draw the attention of any strangers. She's so focussed on just getting to her destination that she bumps straight into a woman walking in the opposite direction – Trixie drops her bag as her arm flails back, trying to minimise her impact on the woman she's barged headlong into.

 

“Shit, sorry!” she says, bending down to grab her stuff and straightening up to lock eyes with Katya, who is squinting at her with a thoughtful expression on her face, lips pursed around a cigarette. _Well, this is awkward..._

 

“Trixie!” Katya greets her, and there's no negativity in her tone – she sounds less energetic than normal, and a little puzzled, but her face is friendly as Trixie says hey back to her. Katya reaches one long-fingered hand up to fiddle with her hair absent mindedly as she asks “So weird to just bump into you here, I thought you lived further East?”

 

“I did! Do. I do, yeah. I've been out with some friends, I'm actually heading home now”

 

“Ending your night out at 11pm huh? You're wild!” Katya teases, and Trixie aches with how much she likes the woman standing before her.

 

“Yeah, well... they all wanted to go on to a club and I wasn't really feeling it so...” 

 

Katya doesn't say anything, just nods a little, and Trixie fills the silence with “So what are you doing out here? Going out too?”

 

Katya winces a little and says “No, I uh... I actually don't drink. I'm just coming home from the studio, it's round the corner there,” she gestures vaguely “Kind of lost track of time working. Got a lot on my mind I guess”. 

 

Trixie wonders if she's one of the things on Katya's mind. With a couple of drinks in her, she's confident enough to push her luck, asking “Hey, could you show me?”.

 

Katya raises her eyebrows in surprise and looks like she's thinking about it. Several different emotions play across her face in quick succession, and then she clearly makes a decision, stomping on her cigarette butt and saying “Sure. Sure, follow me...”

 

Katya and Trixie don't talk on the walk, which only takes a couple of minutes. There's such a weird vibe between them tonight – Trixie has never seen Katya so quiet or so thoughtful before. The smaller woman unlocks a white door and leads Trixie into a large, open space with white walls, explaining “This is the shared space. It's really big, which is great, but we all get to use it, which can be...difficult. My personal unit is upstairs, that's where I keep my work and stuff”. Katya motions to Trixie to follow her up a short flight of stairs, where she unlocks the door to a smaller space with wood floors, bare walls and an angled roof. Through the skylight, Trixie can only see an endless blackness of sky, tainted by the blurry halos of light pollution from the city. 

 

There's weird art shit everywhere. Mannequin heads with weird makeup painted on, wire frames, paint brushes gummed up with a myriad of colours and textures, upturned pots of glitter spilling on the the work surfaces... it's chaos. There are canvases stacked everywhere, half-finished, and each one looks like it holds something monstrous and exciting. There's a cork pinboard on the wall with all kinds of crap stuck to it: bus tickets, cigarette packets, photographs that seem to show Katya with various eccentrically dressed friends and acquaintances... 

 

“I feel like your brain like, threw up here or something” Trixie says, and Katya cackles, throwing her head back, and it's almost back to normal but then her face slides back into stillness and she crosses the room, fiddling with something on one of the work surfaces, her back to Trixie. The light switches from cold and bright to dimmer and warmer as Katya fiddles with some switches on the wall, and Trixie is grateful to be out of the harsh glare that Katya needs for work. 

 

The older woman turns back to face her and Trixie suddenly feels silly in her slutty dress, tugging at the hem. It's pointless – the PVC won't budge, and it's riding up a little on one side, exposing her lacy stocking. She feels very exposed, and she slips out of her heels just to feel a little lower to the ground – a little less conspicuous. 

 

“I feel a bit silly” she confesses, her slight inebriation making her direct, and Katya tilts her head to one side, replying “No, you shouldn't... you look really fucking hot Trixie”.

 

Trixie's heard Katya swear hundreds of times, but this makes an electric shiver curl down her spine – the lowness of her voice in the dim room going straight to Trixie's crotch.  _ Is this going to happen? _

 

“Are you drunk?” she asks Trixie, and the younger woman replies honestly “I've had a few drinks but I'm not drunk. I could definitely walk in a straight line. I'm a little buzzed but that's it.” 

 

“And you definitely want to do this? I'm sober so...” Katya trails off, swallowing hard like she's making a real effort to be calm and reasonable, “so you've got to be sure. If you've been drinking I don't wanna take advantage of you”.

 

It's every kind of wrong that those words in that mouth turn her on. It's very decent of her to check, of course, but standing here and squirming under Katya's gaze is almost too much to handle. She want this to start, now.

 

“Katya” she begins, more confident than she feels, “I want to fuck you when I'm stone cold sober. I would've fucked you this morning. I would fuck you at the bus stop before work”. Katya closes her eyes, swallows again and nods to herself, and then she's slipping off her jacket and striding towards Trixie with precise, driving purpose.

 

Their lips meet in a crash of flesh, and it feels like Katya is trying to devour her. She groans into Trixie's mouth, bringing her hands up to cup her jaw. “Wanted to do this” she growls into Trixie's mouth, sliding one of her hands down to cup Trixie's breast through the PVC dress and kissing her way down her neck, sucking slightly and grazing her soft skin with perfect white teeth. “This thing's too fucking tight, Trix, give me a hand?” she rumbles, her voice low as she tugs uselessly at the neckline of Trixie's outfit. 

 

“You'll have to unzip me,” Trixie says, turning to face the wall and leaning forward to rest her hands against it, both arms outstretched. She doesn't realise how pornographic her pose is until Katya makes a strangled whimpering noise and then she's crowding up behind her, breath tickling the back of Trixie's neck. The dress unzipping sounds unbelievably loud in the quiet room, and then Katya is on her knees, shimmying the tight fabric down Trixie's thick thighs. “Step out” Katya tells her, and the younger woman complies, kicking it to the side. She moves to turn round but Katya quickly barks “Stay there!”, so Trixie does.

 

Katya crowds up behind Trixie, kissing her neck and her shoulder, running her hands down Trixie's sides, tracing her hourglass shape. Every inch of skin Katya touches tingles into life. Katya unhooks Trixie's bra and Trixie quickly shakes it down her arms onto the floor, where it meets the pink dress in the pile of Things Trixie Does Not Give a Fuck About Right Now. 

 

Katya rests her head on Trixie's shoulder, their heights evened out by the way Trixie is leaning. Her hands roam down to Trixie's free, full breasts and Katya exhales a ragged breath as she massages them. Trixie's panting a little, the teasing is making her gyrate her hips involuntarily, and she turns her head to catch Katya's mouth in a rough kiss. 

 

“Fuck, Trix... I wish you could see yourself. Look fucking amazing” she breathes, palming Trixie's round ass. Trixie has never felt so physically appreciated in her life – it's like Katya is taking to time to worship every inch of her body. Katya hooks her fingers under the band of Trixie's panties and slides them down, telling Trixie to step out of them when they hit her ankles. She's totally naked except the bow in her hair and her stockings, while Katya is still fully dressed. Trixie feels very vulnerable right now, but not in a bad way at all. 

 

Suddenly, Katya retreats and Trixie shivers without her warmth. There's a rustling and a few small crashes and Katya's back, manoeuvring Trixie around so her back's against the wall. Katya's in her bra and panties now too, her body athletic and lean in the dim light. She smiles dangerously at Trixie and then they're kissing again, Katya's hand moving to cup her crotch. “Sure?” she whispers one last time, and Trixie nods, groaning and pushing her hips forward, desperate for her. “Please, Katya”, she chokes out, and Katya obliges, slipping one finger between her lips and moaning when she feels how wet Trixie is for her. 

 

She runs her finger upwards along Trixie's cunt, spreading the wetness and making the younger girl cant her hips forward, seeking more friction. Trixie feels like she might combust. Katya's artist's fingers find Trixie's clit and she rubs in small circles, alternating firm and light pressure as Trixie squirms and moans, little high-pitched chirps that make her cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Oh my god”, Katya keeps saying, like she's the one being touched.

 

Katya kisses Trixie once on the mouth and moves away for a second, and then there's a loud crash as Katya shoves the accumulated art crap off of one work surface. “C'mere,” she breathes, pupils huge and chest flushed, and Trixie awkwardly makes her way over, feeling very naked all of a sudden. She perches on the work surface, guided by Katya's hands, and then Katya is on her knees before her.

 

“You're so fucking gorgeous” Katya says, and then doesn't say much of anything as she spreads Trixie's legs and enthusiastically begins to go down on her, spreading her lips open with one hand as she licks and sucks at Trixie's clit. It feels amazing, and Trixie can barely handle it, grateful that they're not in a residential building. She's moaning in earnest now, can't help herself, as Katya slides down every couple of seconds to flick her tongue into Trixie's cunt and back up again to her clit. Trixie's grinding into Katya's face, and Katya's clearly getting off on it, moaning into Trixie's lap, sending vibrations skittering across her. Katya's free hand comes up to join her mouth and she's pushing first one, then two fingers into Trixie.

 

She's seeing stars, that first moment of penetration always makes her eyes cross, and she's never been this turned on before in her life. Katya's crooking her fingers just right, thrusting them back and forth in time with her tongue, still valiantly massaging Trixie's clit. Trixie can feel the warmth pooling in her stomach, tension building in her shaking thighs. Her breath is obscenely loud as she tilts her head back, her eyes screwing shut as she gasps “Fuck.. Kat.. I'm gonna...”

 

Trixie's orgasm feels like light surging in her belly. She's properly fucking yelling now, she knows, and her thighs are tight around Katya's head as the older woman gently continues with her hand and mouth, eking out Trixie's orgasm until she's flopping, sweaty and panting, backwards onto the worktop. There's no way she can stand just yet on these bambi legs, so Katya helps her onto the studio floor. They lay side by side, Katya holding Trixie's flushed face in her hands and dipping in for a shaky kiss. “Holy shit” Trixie whispers, and Katya chuckles.

 

They stay there for a few minutes, lazily kissing and holding each other, until Trixie regains some of her composure. She dreads to think what she looks like right now – Katya looks fucking amazing, her taut, toned body beaded with sweat and her gorgeous face smeared with their mingled lipsticks. Because Katya is Katya, she grabs Trixie's discarded panties and wipes the worst of the makeup from her lips and cheeks and Trixie tells her “you're still fucking gross, I see”. Katya just smiles and waggles her eyebrows, leaning in for another long kiss. 

 

Trixie's recovered enough now, and she wants to make Katya feel as good as she just did. Part of her just wants to see Katya helpless and out of control, wants to see what that gorgeous face looks like contorted in the white heat of orgasm. She leans up on her side, kissing Katya as she helps her to remove her bra and panties, guiding her to lay back down. Trixie leans down over her, kissing her way down to one perky breast and then another, lightly grazing the flushed nipples with her teeth and hearing Katya's breath hitch as she does so. She smiles into the smaller woman's skin, which is burning hot and flushed bright red. Seeing how turned on Katya is is the ultimate encouragement for Trixie, who lays back down and whispers to Katya “Hey, sit up a sec”.

 

Katya does, leaning up on to her knees, and Trixie guides her to shuffle forward until she's hovering over Trixie's mouth. Trixie reaches up and pulls Katya down by her hips until she's sitting on Trixie's face, gripping the workstation above her for dear life. Keeping hold of Katya's hips, Trixie starts to massage her cunt with her mouth, the angle perfect to penetrate Katya with her tongue. Katya is whining and gasping above her, biting her own fist in an effort to keep quiet. She's so fucking wet, and Trixie knows she's good at this, flattening her tongue into a strong line of muscle pushing against Katya. She pulls at the athletic blonde's hips, letting her know it's okay to push into it and grind down into Trixie's mouth, and Katya does, her hips bucking forward and a high whining groan escaping her lips. They're making eye contact, Katya staring helplessly down at Trixie until she can't keep her eyes open any more and then Trixie feels her muscles contract as she comes with a strangled yell, clumsily removing herself from Trixie's mouth and pulling her in for a kiss that feels absurdly gentle after what just happened. 

 

Trixie reaches up to the pile of fabrics stashed by what is obviously Katya's 'gluing shit to other shit' cupboard, yanking at a fleece blanket until it comes free and draping it over the two of them. She presses a gentle kiss to Katya's forehead, and Katya whispers “Trixie, you...” but she sounds so tired and wrecked that Trixie just tells her “In the morning, Kat” and her partner nods and smiles a little. 

 

Trixie curls around, her back to Katya's bare tummy, and Katya's arm snakes around to enfold her, tucking her head over Trixie's shoulder and kissing her, just once, on her earlobe before she drifts off to sleep.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after is rarely pretty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of your support, guys! Sorry this chapter is a bit late, and also sorry for what happens in it! Just remember that we're only about half way through and hang in there... 
> 
> (Remember you can find me on tumblr at artificial-eve and find this fic on artificialqueens as well. New chapter up tomorrow, cause I can't leave it here for long.)

Trixie wakes up feeling less than glamorous. She's sweaty and too warm in the well-heated studio, and her neck hurts from sleeping curled up on the floor. Early morning pours in through the skylight, the sort of cold, blue-tinged light that Trixie knows shows off every bad pore and imperfection in the skin. Katya is still wrapped around her, and Trixie's back is clammy where their skin has been pressed together in the night. When she moves her head, she can feel that her hair is matted around her clip-in extensions, and she has a teeny tiny headache from failing to rehydrate with water after her cocktails last night.

 

Despite all of this discomfort, the warm band of Katya's arms around her is perfect, and Trixie doesn't want to move a muscle, afraid to disturb the sleeping woman and lose even a second of this quiet, peaceful stillness. She blushes, thinking of last night, how beautiful Katya looked writhing above her, how well their bodies fit together. She smiles to herself, listening to Katya mumble nonsensically under her breath as she dreams, and lets herself slip back into a light, contented sleep in the older woman's arms.

 

The next time she wakes up, it's because Katya is stirring: the arm that's draped over Trixie slips away to brush Katya's hair from her face and Trixie can feel her yawning and gently trying to withdraw the arm still underneath Trixie. She shifts her weight to allow Katya to retrieve it, rolling over to face her.

 

Of course Katya looks great first thing in the morning – her red lipstick is smudged in a little pinky-red cloud around her wide mouth, and she has a crescent moon of mascara and eyeliner under each green eye, but her skin is pale and gleaming in the cold light and the smile she flashes Trixie is more flattering than a full face of makeup could ever be. Trixie dreads to think about how she must look – how smudged and wrecked her carefully painted face must be after a night of sex and sleeping without careful removal and moisturisation.

 

Katya quirks one side of her mouth into a quiet little smile, her long eyelashes batting as she looks across at Trixie. Trixie's rapidly becoming used to Katya's unreadable facial expressions, but familiarity doesn't make their impenetrability less frustrating; last night, she was an open book, her face reflecting desire, pleasure, even affection. This morning something in her eyes has closed again and Trixie's once more lost, as if Katya is a beautiful artefact in a glass case at a museum: able to be seen clearly but not properly touched. Something cold threatens to lurch in Trixie's stomach at this strange distance in Katya, who is still mere inches from her in the nest of blankets on the studio floor. An urge rises in her to grab onto Katya, to cling to her and prevent whatever retreat she can sense is coming next. Swallowing her slight panic, Trixie interlaces her fingers with Katya's, their entwined hands resting in between their foreheads, moving slowly as if Katya is a woodland creature she's trying not to spook.

 

Katya's eyes dart down to their hands, as if her curling fingers complied without her instruction. Trixie can feel the other woman's breath on the back of her hand, slow and warm. In the silence of the room, it feels like intimacy. Neither of them wants to be the first to break the quiet, as if to do so would be to puncture whatever bubble of stillness they're currently occupying and plunge them headfirst back into the real, waking world.

 

The older woman's expression is oscillating between something strangely tender and something harder to parse, her mouth pursing slightly in thought. After what feels like minutes of silence, in which Katya stares mostly at their joined hands on the ugly blanket, her gaze occasionally darting across to Trixie's face, Katya takes a slow inward breath and ducks forward, planting a quick, chaste peck on Trixie's manicured thumb. She opens her mouth, clears her throat slightly, seems to be gearing up to speaking, no small task with all the tension in the room, thickening the air like a fog.

 

Trixie's expecting a “Good morning,” or a “Hey,” or (wishful thinking) a “So Tracy, I was thinking I'd pin you down and make you come three times before the sun's properly up, what do you say?”. Instead, after all that fucking build up, what Katya says is “Man, I need a fucking cigarette”.

 

Something about the sheer banality of the statement in a room where, until now, every touch and every breath has felt loaded with meaning, makes Trixie laugh, a quick, loud burst of amusement that Katya can't help but return. The atmosphere softens a little, and Katya shimmies her way into a sitting position, a blanket draped over her like a shawl as she manoeuvrers herself into a semi-modest pose facing Trixie, her back to the chaotic workspace she'd cleared so hastily the night before. She finds a packet of cigarettes in the heap of carelessly flung art crap, along with a chipped mug with half a handle, and lights up, peering at Trixie with a little dimple of something complicated forming between her brows. Trixie can totally see most of one boob peeking out from the folds of the shawl, and Katya's smudged makeup, porcelain skin and elegant, cigarette-bearing hand combine to make her look like some kind of unbearably trendy photospread.

 

“You look like a fashion photography student's edgy final project,” she tells Katya, couching the compliment in sarcasm, and Katya grins around the cigarette, replies with “Italian Vogue, darling”, kicking her bare toes out in a little flourish as she does so. “Keep dreaming buddy,” Trixie counters, “cause it's the first and last time you and 'fashion' are gonna be used in the same sentence”. Sparring verbally with Katya feels comfortable and natural, and for a minute all the awkwardness in the room disperses. Trixie straightens up, holding her blanket up over her ample breasts as she wiggles into a sitting position and does her best to shake her tragic hair into a sexy bedhead sort of thing.

 

“Trixie,” Katya says, and her voice is low and measured this time, and when Trixie meets her eyes there's no laughter in them, “about last night...”. Trixie feels a little bit sick, wondering exactly what flavour of rejection is coming next. Will it be a _we've fucked, so see ya_ sort of rejection, or a _contrary to the testimony of your senses, last night sucked so I want you to leave_ type? Will it be the dreaded _so I'm actually not into chicks, that was a one time thing_ type of brush-off? The amount and variety of scenarios Trixie can imagine in which Katya steps on her teeny pink heart is infinite, and she tries to steel herself for it, knowing that it's pointless, and that whatever Katya says now is going to hurt her to an as yet undetermined extent.

 

“What” she asks flatly, looking down into her own lap rather than at the woman opposite her, who is lighting a second cigarette off the still-glowing end of the first. Something in her tone makes Katya wince, and Trixie can hear her taking in a little breath before she continues “it was lovely. Really lovely. And you...you're wonderful, Trixie. It was very, erm, unexpected. I didn't plan on it”. _Nice one, Katya_ , Trixie thinks, _way to make a girl feel special_.

 

When Trixie doesn't speak, Katya goes on “But there is a... conversation that I like to have, usually, you know, before... and it was probably wrong of me not to have it with you”. Trixie raises her eyes to Katya's face, which is very still and serious. She motions to the older woman to continue, not wanting to respond too early and get over-emotional or hotheaded, as she knows she's prone to doing.

 

“So I don't really date people. Like, seriously, I mean. It's not really something that I do. Sex is lovely! Don't get me wrong, I really like spending time together, and sleeping together, but that's as much as I can do. So unless that's something you can do too, it's probably best for you to know that, you know?” Katya's floundering a little bit, and her voice is so gentle and kind as she explains this that Trixie feels inexplicably angry.

 

“And you didn't feel like telling me this before you fucked me, Katya? It didn't occur to you that that might have been kind?” she responds, her voice impressively steady and cold despite the anger and sadness welling up in her sternum. Katya has the decency to sound remorseful as she answers “I was going to talk to you about it when it came up, Trixie – we didn't kiss when we went for coffee, so it seemed a bit forward, and then I didn't expect to bump into you, looking like that and asking to come home with me...” she trails off, looking truly miserable.

 

“And at no point between 'Can I see your art studio, Katya?' and you taking off my fucking dress did a natural time to deliver a disclaimer arise?” Trixie _is_ raising her voice a little now, and she doesn't really care about it. Katya rubs her brow with her free hand, tapping ash into the broken mug with the other. She's really chain-smoking now, which means she's nervous. _Good,_ Trixie thinks vindictively, meeting her gaze in what she hopes is a challenging manner. 

 

“Look, Trix... I'm sorry. I would have made sure we were on the same page, and I should have done. But, I dunno, you seemed pretty okay with it, and I thought maybe it just wasn't a big deal for you. And I felt weird and this is not a good reason, but I just really fucking wanted to, Trixie”. 

 

“Yeah, I seemed okay with it 'cause I like you and we've been flirting for weeks and we'd been on a date, which to me sort of suggests that you're a person I'm gonna be, oh I dunno, _dating_! Why even go on a fucking date with me if you don't want to actually date?!” Trixie's annoyed now, raising her voice at the other woman, who flinches with each plosive Trixie emphasises. 

 

“I've said I'm sorry, Trixie, but come on. We're grown ups, and you're not exactly a blushing virgin you know? We got coffee once and then fucked, it's not like I've been, like, seducing you or something! You never said what you wanted either.”

 

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Katya. I'm sorry that I assumed that going on a date with someone might mean we were going to date, how unreasonable of me. Sorry I couldn't read your mind and see that you've got some kind of weird _code of honour_ where you'll do all the relationship stuff without any of the actual grown up shit, _fuck_! And what the fuck do you mean about me not being a virgin, are you calling me a slut or something? 'Cause from this conversation, I don't think _I'm_ the slutty one, and for you to assume that I am because of – what – how I dress, or talk or whatever? Bye Katya” she spits, really annoyed. It's better to be angry than upset, and her face feels warm with suppressed hurt. Crying in front of Katya now would fucking suck, so Trixie decides to get out before the inevitable happens. She stands, holding the blanket around herself, feeling super embarrassed and vulnerable without her clothes. Something about being both naked and furious feels extremely undignified, and Trixie can do something about one of those things: she crosses to the door, where her clothes are screwed up in a little pile. 

 

Katya averts her eyes politely as Trixie turns to change, and Trixie can't see her expression, but she can tell from her silence that the other woman feels awful. When Katya speaks, her voice is cracking a little like she's about – or has already started – to cry. 

 

“I didn't mean that, Trixie, and I shouldn't have assumed. I guess just from how confident you are and the shit you say, I just didn't have you down as being super traditional or whatever. I'm really sorry, and I don't think you're a slut, not that that's a bad thing, but you aren't... I'm sorry. I really like you, and I really like being around you, and it was selfish of me but I wanted you so much... I'm a piece of shit, Trix, I'm not a good person”. Katya's really beating herself up, and she sounds so sad and self-loathing that part of Trixie wants to go give her a hug and tell her that she's wonderful. 

 

Most of Trixie is currently hurting and spiteful, though, so instead, she finishes adjusting her stupid walk-of-shame pink dress and snarls “Well, I don't want a fuck buddy, Katya, I'm not in college any more. Don't call me”, feeling the hot prick of tears in her eyes as she leaves, slamming the door and not looking back at the woman she's leaving behind. 


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Trixie gets by with a little help from her friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks again for all your lovely feedback, it honestly makes me so happy. Don't forget that you can find me on artificalqueens on tumblr/at artificial-eve on tumblr as well as here. This is a slower, bridging chapter but I hope you like it, we're moving towards the next big chunk of plot now :) comments bring me joy.

Trixie summons an Uber with shaking fingers, hot anger coursing through her limbs as she waits, pacing agitatedly, for her car to arrive. The driver must pick up on her mood, or be freaked out by her 'slutty scarecrow goes to the circus' look, because he doesn't try and make small talk with her on the short journey to her side of town. She feels unsettled and shaky, fizzing with the aftermath of the argument, and this sustains her until she gets home, keeping her eyes mostly dry and her overdrawn upper lip stiff until the door to her apartment is firmly bolted behind her.

 

She doesn't even want to look at herself, knows her makeup will be terrible and wants to spare herself the added embarrassment of knowing just how shitty she looked while she argued with Katya. Right there in the hall, Trixie slides off her PVC dress and stockings, realising in slight mortification that her panties must still be on the floor of the studio as she does so, and then unclips her knotted extensions, tugging them free with a rough yank that pulls at her scalp. She shoves her clothes into the laundry basket in her bedroom and her extensions on her bedside table to brush out later when she's thinking straight. Careful to avoid the mirror, she enters her en-suite bathroom and turns on the shower, stepping into water so hot she can barely stand it.

 

She holds it together long enough to scrub her face with makeup removal cream, getting the worst of the caked-on crap from last night off as she begins to cry. In the scalding stream of water, Trixie lets herself lose it – all the anger and the shitty feelings, her annoyance at Katya for not being clear, her annoyance at herself for lashing out when she felt hurt. Trixie feels so many things at once, but largely what she feels is pathetic. _Why did I assume she'd want me?_ she thinks bitterly _and why did I make it her fault that I got too attached too fast?._

 

The wind now fully out of her sails, Trixie can't believe how righteously angry she felt just an hour ago. Who the fuck does she think she is to be angry at someone she's been on one date with for politely explaining her stance on relationships? What does Katya actually owe her? She feels like a little girl who just had a foot-stomping tantrum in the grocery store because her mom wouldn't buy her the candy she wanted. _Just because you let yourself imagine her being your girlfriend,_ she tells herself, _doesn't mean she ever said she wanted to be._

 

Miserably, a now clean Trixie wriggles damply into her onesie and sinks into the safe haven of her sheets, laying on her side under the covers and glumly flicking through Instagram on her phone. She has a few texts in her inbox but she doesn't feel up to the sick swoop of embarrassment that runs through her when she thinks about talking to Katya, and what a baby the other woman must think she is. She turns off notifications for texts, so that she won't be disturbed by any more incoming messages until she's ready for them, and opens WhatsApp:

 

**Trixie:** You there?

 

She's hoping and praying that Kim isn't busy, because she's never needed a friend more. Her former housemate isn't too experienced with dating but she's super smart, and Trixie knows that her friend would never judge her for her feelings, rational or not.

 

**Kim:** When have u ever known me not to have my phone in my hand? [hair flick emoji]

 

**Trixie:** I did something dumb I think

 

**Kim:** Tell me something new, bitch

**Kim:** But srsly are u ok?

 

**Trixie:** I dunno :( girl stuff, I kinda messed up my date thing and I feel shitty

 

**Kim:** Want me to skype u?

 

She thinks about it for a second. Trixie's sure she looks like absolute, puffy-eyed crap right now, but curling up in bed with her best friend's digital company seems really comforting right now.

 

**Trixie:** I look like garbage but sure

 

**Kim:** That never normally stops you tbh

 

Kim's friendly shade makes Trixie smile, and she accepts the incoming call, wincing a little at the little image of herself in the bottom corner of the screen. Thank the lord for dim lighting.

 

“Hey Trix! Do I need to come and kick someone's ass for you?” Kim opens, doing a campy little martial arts pose at the camera.

 

“No, girl. But you can come karate chop some sense into me in a minute” she answers, her voice sounding tired and defeated, even to her own ears.

 

“What happened?”

 

“Uh, well, after the date when we sort of ended weird, you remember?”

 

Kim nods in recognition and makes a little humming noise.

 

“Well I went out with Violet from work and her friends, they're super nice actually, and I bumped into... her... on the way home,”

 

“Bumped into, or like, _bumped into_?”

 

“It was totally a coincidence! Her art studio is really near the bar, and we went back there and ended up hooking up, and then this morning she was all 'I don't _do_ relationships' and I sort of flipped out at her and now I feel dumb as fuck” Trixie summarises, making a little frowny face as she finishes and looks to her tiny, palm-sized Kim for guidance.

 

“Aw, honey. Are you ok?” Kim asks, her face sympathetic.

 

“Yeah, I just feel like a loser I guess. Like, I'm 24, I don't get why I even feel so bummed, you know? Not everyone wants to be like, married and settled. Especially at my age.”

 

“I mean, that's true, but not everyone _doesn't_ want to either, you know? Like you can't assume someone is a certain way, but that goes for both of you. You're not weird for being like, emotional about sex, and she's not weird for not being. I think you're being too hard on yourself”

 

Kim's words are comforting, but Trixie doesn't feel much better. She and Kim are similar – Kim's still a virgin, so she doesn't hook up at all, and she and Trixie are both disappointingly traditional about just wanting a simple, straightforward relationship. Neither of them are really about fucking around – and Trixie knows cause she's tried. She enjoys sex a lot, and likes having fun, and it took her a long time in college trying to enjoy casual flings and feeling shitty and sad before she learned that it's just not for her, much as she'd like it to be. She gets pretty insecure about it sometimes, like it makes her uncool and babyish, and knowing Kim's the same way makes her doubt the validity of her friend's statements.

 

“Is Pearl there, babe?” she asks, hoping for a second opinion from someone more 'normal' – Pearl is totally cool hooking up with boys and girls without feeling weird about it, and is probably in a better position to judge whether Trixie is being irrational or not.

 

There's a brief clattering and the sound of Kim shouting at Pearl to turn off her music and come help with Trixie, and she closes her eyes, imagining for a second they all still live in the same noisy, friendly house. When she opens them, two girls are peering back at her from her phone screen, and Pearl winks, drawling in her flat monotone that she heard Trixie was looking for a 'slut's opinion' on her current romantic entanglements.

 

Trixie runs through recent events for Pearl, with Kim chipping in to give her opinions and add in any bits Trixie misses out. When she's done, Pearl chews her lip for a second before responding.

 

“Well, it's totally fine for her to not be about like, dating, you know? I know that's not your issue though Trix. It's not like, slut shaming or anything to want to date and stuff. She should have talked to you before it went that far, but things do happen, you know, like in the moment. Nobody's perfect. I think a lot of you being angry is 'cause you were like, hurt and disappointed maybe?”

 

“Wow, Pearl, I think that's the most words you've said in a row this year!” Kim mocks, and Pearl gives her an affectionate shove. It makes Trixie's heart ache to be with her friends, and Pearl's considered opinion makes her feel a little better.

 

“Yeah, you're totally right, girl. I guess this is just one of those 'suck it up and move on' things, you know? Like, sucks for me, sucks for her, get a new bus stop and get on with life?” Trixie surmises, resignation in her tone, and her friends both nod in agreement, adding that she shouldn't feel dumb for being sad that someone she likes doesn't want to be with her.

 

The three chat about random crap for a while, and it's so familiar and soothing that Trixie finds her eyes fluttering shut with increasing frequency as they float plans to see each other again, talk about reality TV (this one guy on the new ANTM is so extra, and they all have conflicting feelings about boys being on the show at all. Tyra Banks is serious business) and just generally catch up on each others' lives. Kim and Pearl have so many small embarrassing stories to tell Trixie about one another, and Trixie just relaxes in their company, letting their chatter flow over her... until she dozes off, waking up a minute or so later to two very amused women making fun of her slack-mouthed napping face. (“We took screenshots”, Kim informs her gleefully).

 

Trixie says her goodbyes and spend the rest of her Sunday napping, waking up to snack and restart the podcast episodes she's sleeping through. It's an okay way to spend a crappy day, and she feels a little better by the time Monday morning rolls around, her commute only ten minutes longer with her new bus-stop detour in place. She tries to put things out of her mind, succeeding partially, until Violet rolls into work around noon for an afternoon shift, pulls out her headphones and says to Trixie “Hey, bitch, you never said your date was with _Katya!_ ”.

 

Oh, shit.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The internet isn't for porn after all - it's for stalking girls you have a crush on.
> 
> Featuring: unexpectedly sage colleagues, social media, potentially dumb decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortest and most belated chapter ever. Just something small to get back into writing this - and to say sorry for leaving you hanging. I've been bowled over by how many messages I've received about this, and it means the world to me that people care about it.

Trixie's serving fish, by which she means doing a fantastic impression of a koi karp, mouth wide in puzzled surprise at Violet's greeting. The little surge of shock/surprise/residual rejected pain stings in her chest like an open wound being prodded by her colleague's long, acrylic-tipped fingers. Eyes down, Trixie quirks half of her mouth into an unconvincing little smile of acknowledgement and quietly asks “Friend of yours, is she?”.

 

She wishes she could say she didn't care about the answer.

 

Violet nods, and then elaborates “Yeah! She rents a studio in the same building as me, I share a little space there to work on costumes and shit for my burlesque...” and _of course_ Violet is into that, it's the least surprising thing she's ever heard. Trixie can totally see her in a vintage corset wiggling seductively by like, gaslight or whatever. 

 

“Oh, that...makes sense. I guess. How d'you know we went on a date?” Trixie asks, cautious, wondering whether Katya's been venting about the clingy one-night stand from hell, and dreading the response. To her surprise, Violet looks a little sympathetic as she says “I saw her last night, working late. She seemed pretty torn up when we were outside smoking so we just got talking about her weekend. She feels pretty shitty, man”.

 

Trixie, having spent the last twenty-four hours going over and over their fight in her head, is a little surprised. She's pretty much come to the conclusion that neither of them were really in the right or the wrong – crossed wires, unrealistic expectations and bad communication maybe, but actual bad behaviour, not so much. “She feels shitty? I mean, she shouldn't. It's totally her right to want whatever she wants, you know?” she asks, hating the little wobble in her voice and the blush of embarrassment that springs to her full cheeks.

 

“Hmm. She's a tricky one, Katya,” Violet answers, looking thoughtful, “and she's convinced she's like, Satan herself. I'm not gonna get into it too much but she's got a lot going on. Are you gonna see her again?”. Trixie's taken aback a little by the line of questioning, answering “Um, I don't really think that's an option, Vi. I want to actually date someone, and she...doesn't really want anything, I guess. I'm sure she'd rather forget about it and move on, too”. Violet sort of squints at Trixie, pursing her lips a little in thought. She seems to sense Trixie's discomfort, how little she wants to get into this, and she just says “I really wouldn't be too sure about what Katya wants, Trix. I don't think she knows, like, _at all_ ”, before abruptly changing the course of conversation, clapping her delicate hands together decisively and brightly declaring “Now I am _ready_ to take a look at these new matte lips, aren't you?”.

 

Trixie is grateful for the distraction, and muses as she and Violet sit swatching products that she seems to have found herself with an unexpected but surprisingly thoughtful new friend. Her actual work that day is pretty fun – she and Violet take a few pictures for the work Instagram account and experiment with the new shades in stock, promoting them to their walk-in customers and trying on a few themselves. By the time her shift is over, Trixie's feeling pretty upbeat, and she decides to treat herself to one of the new hot pink lip stains that she tried earlier. She's totally not above admitting that a little retail therapy (especially at a hefty discount!) is always a cheer-up, and she applies the heavily pigmented shade in the staff room before she leaves.

 

Maybe it's the positive vibes from her good day, or the little buzz of confidence she feels knowing that her bold new lip colour looks amazing on her, but she doesn't walk to a different stop tonight, secretly hoping to bump into Katya. Some kind of masochistic, curious bit of her brain wants to see how the other woman would react to her – what she'd say or do, whether she'd be friendly or cold. Violet's words have given Trixie a lot to think about, and she doesn't really know what to think. Vi didn't seem convinced that Katya was as off-limits as she claimed to be herself, and the stuff she said about Katya feeling so down about the weekend was intriguing, to say the least. When Katya isn't at the stop, Trixie feels oddly disappointed, realising just how much she'd been psyching herself up to see the other woman. She thinks hard about her all the way home, wondering exactly what Violet means about Katya being unsure, and whether it would be crazy or pathetic to have hope.

 

It's this state of mind that finds Trixie laying on her stomach like a teenager on her little sofa, her stocking feet sticking up behind her. She types 'Katya Zamoldchikova' into Google on her phone, unsure of how to spell the surname but sure she's at least in the right ballpark. Apparently this name isn't too usual in Russia, and Trixie's search returns a lot of obviously-not-Katya results. She narrows her search down by adding the word 'art', and  _bingo_ . She's rewarded with an Instagram account that seems to be pretty active – the most recent post is a close-up of inky black liquid with tones of blues and greens floating on the surface. The caption reads “The seas are troubled tonight, Brenda. Or do I just not clean my brushes enough?”. Trixie smiles to herself, almost able to hear Katya's voice saying that out loud. She scrolls down the page, checking out Katya's art – it's all great, but the photos she tends to pause on are the ones that show small scraps of the artist herself.

 

One image shows Katya's shadowy face reflected in the glass of a framed painting, barely there and ghostly. Trixie has to squint to see it, but when she does, the art melts away and leaves her searching for something she can't name in the phantom image of Katya's downturned eyes, her wide, pursed lips.  _Who are you, really?_ Trixie thinks, struggling to reconcile the mysterious, quiet-seeming woman in the photograph and the larger-than-life, wisecracking extrovert she knows Katya to be.  _How much of you did I not get to see?_

 

Trixie knows this is super unhealthy, but on she scrolls, more intrigued with every glance she gets into Katya's quiet, private life. Small artefacts of her emerge from the images – a bony knob of ankle peeping behind a canvas resting in her lap, a slender wrist in a photo modelling a watchlike jewellery piece she worked on with a sculptor a year ago. Trixie thinks about Katya alone, wonders what she was like when these were taken – dwells for a long time on a looping video of her long, elegant fingers smearing thick paint on a blank surface, teasing the shades that lie in layered blobs out in long, even swirls. The concentration and effortless intensity behind those digits is something Trixie can approximately imagine – after all, it's not that long ago that it was all focussed on her writhing body. She'd love to be the focus of that calm determined motion, no frantic need or poorly considered lust this time, just slow, deliberate care, as if Trixie was something Katya had thought deeply about and considered worth doing. She sighs at her own dumb thoughts – she sounds like she needs to take a train back to LiveJournal in 2006 or something.

 

Trixie really does have nothing to lose, Katya-wise, she reasons with herself, and so she allows herself to 'like' one of Katya's more recent images – it's an indirect sliver of contact, okay, but it's an olive branch nonetheless. She taps the Insta post twice, a little red heart lighting up to confirm that she, Trixie Mattel, likes this. She just has to hope it's a little better received than the last heart she sent Katya's way. 

 


End file.
